Where the Heart Is
by larkgrace
Summary: If home is where the heart is, two people whose hearts are broken by their pasts might have some trouble finding their way back. / JonasKira, post-Messenger. Minor spoilers for Son. One-shot.


**Okay. It's probably a bad idea on a million different levels to post this now, because it's after midnight and I have finals in the morning and I probably misspelled every other word near the end, but I have been in a writing FRENZY these past three days and managed to crank this whole thing out and I can't hold it in. so here. Lemme know about any typos/other errors and I'll fix them later.**

**I don't own Jonas, or Kira, or basically anything.**

O-o-O

_.:shock:._

Jonas paced outside the Forest, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He tried to reach out, tried to see beyond the tangled growth, tried to find the boy trapped inside, but his perceptions were blocked, as though there was a thick, dark, poisonous fog in the trees. He couldn't find Matty. _He couldn't see Matty._

Jonas kept staring, first at the trees and then at nothing, until his eyes began to tear, and still the fog hovered, but it was lightening—

He could _see. _But he couldn't find Matty; there was another presence, stronger, closer, and a woman crashed through the brush, limping badly with a cane in her hand, and she was shaking and sweating, she collapsed—

Jonas lunged forward and barely got his arms under her before she hit the ground. The woman was gasping, and sobbing; the hand holding her cane shook so badly that she dropped it with a clatter.

"Are you alright?" he asked her. "Are you Kira?"

She nodded, still crying and shivering. "Someone send for Herbalist!" he yelled over his shoulder at the crowd that had amassed there, and he heard footsteps departing at a run. He looped the woman's—Kira's—arm behind his neck, picked up her walking stick, and scooped her up in his arms before taking off at a trot to his home. Herbalist would find him there; half the crowd would direct him.

It wasn't until he'd settled Kira on his bed, removed her sandals, and tucked a blanket around her that he realized she was unaccompanied. He was loathe to question her at a time like this, but curiosity got the best of him; hesitantly he asked, "Where's Matty?"

She shook her head, wiped her eyes. "Dead," she said.

*#*#*

_.:hands:._

Kira had recovered from her shock quickly in Herbalist's capable hands. She stayed with her father—Jonas was happy to see them reunited, but he wouldn't pretend that he didn't miss the company of her in his house (though he did enjoy sleeping in his bed instead of on the couch).

He found himself visiting Seer more and more often, always with the same questions—are you settling in well? How are you? Is your leg feeling alright? (Though he knew the cuts Forest gave her had long since healed.) He watched her work on her new threading frame, her hands as steady with wood as with fabric and dyes, and admired the tapestries that already adorned her father's walls. Sometimes he interrupted them in what looked like bonding—he'd walk in the door and find Seer with his hands on Kira's face, or her fingers, learning the feel of her the way no sighted person ever could, but no matter what they were doing they both had a smile for him.

Once, he visited while her father was out, but she was weaving in a corner of the hovel, so absorbed in her task that she didn't notice him. He thought about leaving, but the door scraped against the ground as he made to close it, and she looked up.

"Hello, Jonas," she said, with a warm smile, and beckoned for him to join her. She never called him 'Leader'; he found that he liked her even more for that.

That afternoon she told him the name of each plant that made up every color of thread in her overflowing basket, and all the while her fingers never faltered in making their pattern in the frame. He listened and watched her hands make miracles on fabric.

It was only when the sun began to set—where had the day gone?—that he realized he needed to leave. She took his hand in hers and squeezed in farewell.

*#*#*

_.:mud:._

Mentor stopped when he heard voices by the river—not the shouts of adventuresome boys, which he knew well, but delighted shrieks of laughter. _Adult _shrieks of laughter. Though far less common in the Village than the noises of rambunctious children, he recognized them all the same.

He stopped and leaned against a young willow, its skinny trunk just wide enough to make a resting place, and peered through the trees. There were footprints in the mud, but he could hear shouts of, "No, _there! _Turn around!" and more laughter, and then Leader appeared with Kira on his back, pointing at a clump of plants in the mud. Leader's shirtsleeves were rolled up and his feet bare, and the bottoms of his trousers were splattered with mud, but if he noticed he didn't care. He held Kira's stick in one hand, and the other was supporting her twisted leg where it rested above his hip, leaving her good leg to wrap around his body. "You can let me down, Jonas," she said, and Mentor started at the sound of Leader's old name—it was hardly ever used.

Leader set Kira on her feet, and she made to kneel in the mud but he said, "No, I'll do it." He leaned down and started pulling up plants.

"Jonas, you're breaking the stems," she admonished him, and settled herself on the ground, pulling the plants from the mud with practiced ease. She rinsed the worst of the dirt off in the running water and tucked the plants in a bag. Just as she made a move to get up, Leader tried to help her, and the result was that her mud-caked hand slammed into his cheek.

"Well," he said, blinking, and promptly stopped Kira's giggling by splashing her with muddy water. She shrieked and threw a handful of mud at him.

Mentor smiled and kept walking. Leader, he thought, deserved to act like the child he was now and then.

*#*#*

_.:talk:._

Feast days were hardly rare in the Village, something for which Jonas was thankful. He doubted that many of these people knew how important it was to connect—to become affectionate for each other, to laugh and sing and dance together, to tell stories and cause general uproar. The people of his Community, he mused, would be outraged at such noise and disorder, but he liked it.

Food was plentiful, too, and everyone had a plate overflowing. Those too weak to carry them were assisted by the young and able-bodied. He smiled as he watched a little girl named Mary balance Seer's plate on her arm, guiding him by the elbow to an empty seat. His gaze shifted, and he saw Kira, her plate threatening to spill as she navigated with her walking stick across the rough ground. He jumped up at once, striding forward to take the plate in his own hands, and she thanked him with a smile that made his heart do a funny little squeeze.

"Um—your father's over there," he said, pointing to the table.

"I noticed," she said. "His table appears to be full, though," she added, and sure enough children were clustered around Seer as he told them a story. "Could I join you?"

"Of course." He led her to his seat, well out of the way of the festivities; he'd always preferred watching over participating. She ate and watched and smiled with him. She liked the music here best, she told him; he said there was no music where he'd come from. "That's horrible!" she said, sounding genuinely aghast. "Music is one of the best things in the world!" And she told him of the little singer girl she'd befriended, with her voice like some unearthly being. He smiled and watched the light in her eyes as she told her story, like a heavenly creature of light had taken up residence there.

*#*#*

_.:teach:._

Kira had been to Jonas's home many times, and she could never wrap her mind around how many books he owned, or how he ever planned to read them all. Every wall of every room, covered floor to ceiling in books, and still he seemed to find room for more. Often when she visited he was reading; most times they'd sit in silence, he with his book and she with whatever project she'd brought to occupy her hands.

Today, he set his book aside when she limped in and had a smile waiting for her. She grinned back and peered at the front of the book, squinting at the gold squiggles on the front. "What are you reading this time?" she asked.

He picked it up and showed her the cover, right side up, but she shook her head. He seemed to understand. "Do you read?" he asked, brow furrowing.

"No," she said, and settled herself onto the sofa. "Women were never allowed to learn."

He frowned and gestured for her to come closer. "Say 'apple'," he told her.

"Apple," she repeated.

"Aah."

"Aah."

He pointed to a gold loop on the cover. "That's the letter 'a'," he told her. "It makes the 'aah' sound—and a lot of other ones, but we'll get to that later." He snatched up a piece of paper and a pen and drew two characters. "Those are both the letter 'a'. Big 'a'—" he pointed to the first squiggle, three lines interconnected like a triangle, "and little 'a'. Get it?"

She nodded. He slid the paper to her and handed her the pen. "Now you try."

She copied the symbols as best she could. Her writing looked childish, sloppy next to Jonas's steady lines.

He wrapped his hand around hers and guided her fingers across the page.

They sat like that for the rest of the afternoon, her fist wrapped in his warm fingers, and together traced the entire alphabet.

*#*#*

_.:name:._

"So are you going to name her?"

Jonas was startled by Gabe's question. He'd always been a curious child, and he had a talent for asking questions that have no simple answer.

"She's a grown-up," Gabe persisted. "Aren't you going to give her a true name?"

Jonas had to stop and think. 'Weaver' would be more than appropriate—but he looked over, and Kira was sitting on the ground, her lap occupied by a six-year-old orphan named Jane, and Jane was laughing for the first time that Jonas could remember as Kira told her a story with hand motions and silly voices. Kira's eyes sparkled and her cheeks were flushed and her long, dark hair was clinging to her face in tendrils—

He couldn't think of a word to describe her like this.

"Her name is Kira," he told Gabe, with a shrug.

*#*#*

_.:lean:._

Kira came to love feasts and festivals in the Village. Most of all, she loved that after the food was cleared away and the musicians packed away their instruments and the sky grew dark, a fire was lit, and the villagers gathered around it and told stories. They told stories of how they came here and what they'd left behind, and everyone listened and lamented for those who didn't realize their homes—whatever they chose to call them, Communities or Villages—were oppressed.

Kira stayed on the outskirts of the circle; she was in no mood to tell her own story and anyway, she hadn't played a big, heroic role—and she didn't want to talk about the one who did.

Jonas sat well away from the center of the circle, too—she supposed everyone had heard his story by now. He spotted her and moved so that he was sitting beside her.

The night drew on, and the fire began to die. She shivered and yawned, and leaned against Jonas, and tucked her head on his shoulder. He didn't object to this, only put an arm around her to warm her up. She sighed and fell asleep to the sound of her father's voice, rejoicing for the long-lost daughter that he had finally found.

*#*#*

_.:care:._

Kira knocked on Jonas's door before she let herself in; he'd never before hesitated to grant her entry and she had no reason to believe that he would today.

She was already halfway across the entry before she realized that he hadn't acknowledged her knock at all.

"Jonas?" she called out. He was home, she knew he was, but there was no answer. "Jonas!" she repeated, with a little more fear in the word. There was still no answer.

She limped through the house as quickly as she could manage, peering into every room, and she found him in his study, bent double in front of the window and shaking—

"Jonas!" she yelled, and rushed around his desk; he didn't look at her and didn't straighten up, and he was shuddering and gasping like he was in pain; she shook his shoulder and yelled "Jonas!" again. He looked up at her, his eyes focused on something a million miles away, glassy and rimmed in red.

"I keep seeing them, Kira," he said, and his voice was thick. "I see them and they don't go away."

He sank into a chair, although she had the feeling that it was pure luck that put a seat behind him and he would've collapsed anyway, and he pulled her down with him onto his lap and buried his face in her shoulder.

"What do you see?" she asked, rubbing the nape of his neck the same way her mother used to when Kira felt ill.

"All of them," he gasped. "All of the people. Dying. All the time. I see them everywhere and _I can't save them."_

"Everyone dies," she said. "You'll die too. And you can't save everyone. You _shouldn't _save everyone; you don't need to." After a moment, she added, "You don't need to save _me."_

He gave a shaky laugh. "I know," he said. "You can do your own saving."

"Don't forget it either." She ran her fingers through his hair.

"I'm a wreck," he murmured.

"No," she said. "You just care."

*#*#*

_.:cold:._

Kira shrieked, not in fright or pain, merely because she felt it was appropriate as Jonas came barreling into the Village, his every footstep jolting her body as he carried her through the torrential downpour that had started up as she had been harvesting bark. She'd protested when he'd tried to pick her up—she was perfectly capable of walking, even in the mud—but she couldn't move as fast as him and she knew he'd stay with her until his lips turned blue, so she'd relented, and he'd run all this way with her in his arms.

Jonas somehow managed to open his door, and he stumbled into his mercifully dry dwelling, kicking the door shut behind him to block the frigid air. He set her on her feet and handed her the stick he'd kept clenched in his fist the whole run.

She sank into his couch and rubbed her arms, trying to regain feeling, but she was too cold. Jonas looked her over as she peeled her wet dress away from her body, and said, "You're soaked—I'll get you a towel." And he strode from the room, leaving muddy footprints on the otherwise spotless floor.

He reappeared moments later to find her slipping her sandals off and wrinkling her nose at the sensation of slimy mud between her toes. He passed her a towel, which she took gratefully and used to dry her arms and face. Jonas sat on the floor and produced a smaller towel, and started to clean the dirt from her feet. She laughed at the tickling sensation, a little shakily as they both shuddered from the cold, his whole torso convulsing with shivers under the shirt that was plastered to him.

"Come here," she said, and he rose to sit on the couch next to her. She rubbed his hair with the towel, the fabric obscuring his face momentarily, and when she removed it his lips were turning a dusky blue.

"You look cold," she said, stupidly, but she was finding it hard to string together into words why it bothered her so that he was freezing.

"So do you," he responded.

She pulled a thick blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over the both of them, and then she moved closer so that they could wrap the blanket all the way around themselves. After much squirming and rearranging she found herself twisted at the waist, her arm pressed against Jonas's ribcage and reaching past him to wrap around his shoulders and press the blanket against his back. He mirrored her pose, his arm between her and the back of the couch, his fist on her shoulder blade. Their noses were almost touching. His warm breath fanned over her face.

She leaned forward and buried her face in the warm skin at his neck, and after a moment she felt him copy her.

They stayed like that, in their tangle of limbs and fabric, until the storm subsided long enough for him to escort her to her father's house.

*#*#*

_.:peek:._

Jonas knocked on the door of Seer's house, quietly, because he was hoping that Kira would be so absorbed in her work that she wouldn't notice him, and then slipped inside as quietly as he could.

Kira was tucked away in her corner, but Seer smiled in Jonas's direction. Jonas tiptoed across the floor, sneaking across the room until he stood behind Kira's shoulder, and peered over at the mass of white fabric in her lap.

"What are you working on?" he asked.

She jumped and wadded up the excess fabric, shoving it in her chair as she stood and yelled "No _peeking!" _She poked his chest with her walking stick.

"Why can't I see?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her close so she couldn't hit him with the stick again. She wriggled her arms free and draped them around his neck.

"Because I said so, that's why," she told him. "And because it's a surprise. And because I don't like you sneaking up on me."

"Fair enough." He leaned down to rest his forehead against her own, and her breath warmed his mouth and her eyes gazed steadily into his.

"I know you have more important places to be," she said, after a moment.

"Maybe." He stroked her spine with his thumb. "I don't particularly _want _to be anywhere else."

"Mmm," she mumbled, her eyes closing. "The perils of politics. Go on," she said, and gave him a half-hearted shove. "Run along and do whatever little Leaders do. Will you come back for dinner?" she asked.

"Depends on who's cooking," he teased. "If it's _you…"_

She smacked his shoulder. "If you're going to insult my cooking, feel free to leave at any time," she said.

"I'll try to make it back," he told her. "Either way, I'll see you later." And, still smiling, he disentangled himself from her arms and backed out the door, leaving her to her weaving.

*#*#*

_.:cheer:._

Kira squeaked in surprise as Jonas hoisted her off the ground and settled her on top of his own feet, so that she was just close enough to his mouth to kiss him without his leaning down. She could hear the gathered villagers whooping with delight as she dropped her stick (although it didn't hit the ground—the white ribbons that were tied to both the stick and her wrist for just that purpose prevented it) and tangled her fingers in her hair, trying her best to stand on tiptoe without crushing his feet.

She heard deafening applause, and then the villagers started cheering their names: "Kira! Jonas! _Kira! Jonas! KIRA! JONAS!_" louder and louder until it drowned out everything, even her frantically pounding heart. (Later, Jonas would tell her that this was adapted from a custom in his old Community, and that he was pleasantly surprised to hear his real name used.)

She looked over Jonas's shoulder, searching for her father, and finally she found him with tears running down his face. She knew he hated loud noises, knew that this must be torture for him, but he was shouting the loudest of all.

*#*#*

_.:sleep:._

Very rarely did Jonas resent his job, but there were times when his patience was tested. He was used to dealing with minor disagreements over property—reaching a resolution was usually a matter of getting both parties to realize how silly they both sounded, rather than working out agreements. One of the more tedious and time-consuming aspects of his duty, but he usually didn't mind.

But the fact that he'd just spent two hours settling a debate about a broken section of fence _on his wedding day _peeved him, just a little. He'd been tempted to turn the arguing neighbors away, but Kira had reminded him that when he'd been made Leader, he'd made a contract of sorts with the villagers—to help them whenever and in whatever capacity he could. So he'd been forced to leave her alone, upstairs, and only now could he join her—though she was probably asleep by now.

Kira was, in fact, asleep when he found her, but the creaky bedroom door woke her. She shook her tangled hair out of her eyes and muttered something that sounded like an attempt at English before she dropped her head back onto her pillow.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked; this room in particular had a nasty draft even in summer and she was wearing nothing but one of his (stolen) shirts: her legs were bare and splayed on top of the bedcovers.

"Don' wan' move," she mumbled. "Hurts."

"Hurts? What hurts?" She appeared to be perfectly fine, aside from the obvious exhaustion, but he was no healer.

"Hip," she grunted, and wiggled her shriveled leg. "'S fine, Jonas. Happens," she said, with a tremendous yawn, "when I walk a lot."

He sat down next to her and slid his shoes off. On a normal day he would have set them back in their place—he liked his possessions to be organized—but today was so abnormal in a fantastic way, and the room was spotted with Kira's belongings anyway: a basket of her everyday clothes, and draped over a chair was the beautiful white dress she'd worn today, woven with creams and golds that were mere shades away from blending perfectly with the dress's fabric. One of his books told stories of divine creatures called angels; he thought that the angels must look like Kira had looked in that dress, with her hair being swept about in the breeze and her eyes laughing with her mouth.

Kira grabbed his shoulder and tugged until he lay back, and she wrapped her arms around him like he was an oversized comfort object. He grinned and gave her a peck on the forehead, and realized as she drifted off again that he wasn't cold.

*#*#*

_.:grieve:._

Kira was kneeling in a patch of mud, but she didn't care enough to move. It was as close as she could get to her father.

He was laid in a box in the ground, covered in the wrappings she'd decorated herself—he'd asked her months ago to make sheets with every kind of bird she could think of, and she'd never asked why, but he must have known he was—

He was dying. And she didn't know.

She bit her knuckles. She had lost him once, lost him for sixteen years, but it wasn't any easier the second time. Not when it was so final, with his body in the earth.

She felt Jonas approach behind her, and he sat on the ground and pulled her into his lap and squeezed her hand. He'd loved her father, too.

She squeezed his hand back.

*#*#*

_.:swell:._

Jonas gave a contented sigh as he leaned back, laid out on the couch. "It's nice being home," he said.

"It's nice having you home," Kira muttered absently; he knew she was only half-listening, she was so focused on her work. Then the topic of conversation seemed to click in her head, and she turned around long enough to smirk at him and say, _"Scholar." _

He rolled his eyes. "This whole title thing is ridiculous," he said. "We all have names."

Kira gave a noncommittal shrug; she was lost in her work again. Jonas watched the sunlight filter through her threading frame and silhouette her body before he turned back to his own book. He had his whole lifetime ahead of him to read his books, now: it was his only job. He smiled to himself.

"Jonas?"

"Huh." He closed his book and turned around. Kira had momentarily abandoned her project and had turned on her stool to face him again.

"What made you decide to step down now?"

"What made you decide to question it now?" he said with a grin.

"I got hungry and it distracted me," she said. "Answer me."

He thought for a moment about teasing her for her appetite, but this appeared to be one of the rare moments when she was more solemn than he was, so he answered as he picked up an apple from the table and rose from the couch. "I never saw you," he said. "I never saw anyone unless they came to me with a problem, because I was working so much. It was wearing me out." He rubbed the apple on his shirt and passed it to Kira.

She accepted the fruit gratefully and took a bite. "And getting overworked was your _only _reason?" she said, although the joking gleam was back in her eye.

"Well," he drawled, with a smile, and knelt in front of her. "I might have had an ulterior motive or two."

"Uh-huh," she said, just as teasingly. "Can I guess at what those two motives might be?"

He leaned up and kissed her, then bent over and pressed his mouth to her rounded stomach. "Go for it," he said.

She ran her fingers through his hair, and he closed his eyes with contentment. He was certainly glad to be home.

*#*#*

_.:home:._

Kira stumped down the last few stairs and resumed her search of the house. She knew Jonas was home, and Annabelle was more than likely with him, but it was amazing how two people could get lost in such a small building. Nobody had answered her when she yelled, so either they were planning some trick—thick as thieves, those two, and Annabelle wasn't even a year old—or they were outside.

Kira had almost made it out the door before she heard a soft, little-girl snore coming from the couch. She whirled around. Jonas was fast asleep, one hand inches from a book that had fallen on the floor, the other resting firmly on Annabelle, who was curled up on his chest, also unconscious. Kira snorted, wondering whether it was her husband or daughter who had produced such a delicate snore.

She wasn't feeling so irksome as to wake them, so she knelt on the floor, and after she pulled a piece of Annabelle's tangled blond hair from her mouth, she picked up the book that Jonas had dropped and started reading. He'd probably been reading the stories inside to Annabelle. Kira smiled at the thought.

Sometime later—long enough that her rear end had started to go numb—she felt a gentle tug on her braid. Jonas was awake, his blue eyes bleary from sleep.

_Nice nap? _she asked silently.

_Very,_ he mouthed back. She smiled and ran a hand through Annabelle's hair. The toddler stirred, yawned, and sort of opened her eyes. "Mama," she mumbled, and reached for Kira, although she went off balance and started to slide off Jonas. Kira could feel him tense, but it was easy for her to place her hands under Annabelle's arms and swing her down into a more secure position on her own lap.

"Maybe she should finish her nap in a slightly less perilous location," Kira suggested as Annabelle drifted off again.

"Maybe," Jonas agreed. "Would you like help getting her there?"

Kira smiled, and held Annabelle tight against her chest with one arm, and Jonas pulled her to her feet.

O-o-O


End file.
